Real Hallucinations
by Bonomania
Summary: House doesn't understand reality anymore. He needs to escape. My take on how season 5 could end. SPOILERS for season 5 and finale. Full A/N inside.


**A/N: **This was originally going to be how I thought the season 5 finale might/could/would go...but then I got a bit carried away and decided that this is how it might happen IN MY HEAD.  
**SPOILERS! for season 5 and to the finale!** This fic is **post-'Under My Skin'** – pretty much carries on where the episode left off and then goes a little crazy. All you need to know is that this is my take on what could happen leading up to (the possibility of) House being committed.

**  
Real Hallucinations  
**

He opens his eyes to find that Cuddy's gone. Getting up, he drags himself out of the bedroom. The apartment's in darkness; the lights are off and only a faint orange glow from the window streaks across the floor. For a moment, he wonders just how long he's been sleeping.

_Not like I didn't need it,_ he thinks.

Feeling his way into the kitchen, he heads for the fridge, flinching at the light when he opens the door. He takes a swig of milk from the carton. The next minute, the milk's on the floor in a puddle around his feet, but his attention's elsewhere. All he can hear are the first six chords of Claire de Lune repeating on his piano. He doesn't need to look to know who's playing.

"We needed a break, so I let you sleep." Amber flicks her blonde hair back behind her ear and continues playing; chords, break, repeat. House faces her, but says nothing. His jaw is set, but his hands shake like they're set on _vibrate_. "Oh, come on. You didn't think I'd just go away because you _want_ me to, did you?" She laughs when he doesn't say a word and continues staring as though he's trying to will her away. "Oh House," she says with a patronising tone, "I thought we were smarter than that."

House swallows the thick lump lodged in his throat and manages to choke out, "You're not here."

"It doesn't matter how many times you keep saying that," she replies, her tone casual, "I _am_ here. I'm _you_ and since _you're_ here, I must be too." The music keeps playing; looping and grating on House's exhausted mind.

"You…you _shouldn't _be here. I…the Vicodin, I detoxed from the Vicodin." His words are rushed, shaking just like his hands.

His face contorts as she lets out a chuckle and looks him in the eye, her fingers still dancing in steps up and down the piano keys. "Look in your shoes," she says. He instantly knows what she's getting at. In need of some light, he frantically fumbles around for the light switch, turns it on and shuffles quickly towards the closet, ignoring his protesting leg. Every couple of steps, he looks back at her as she starts the incessant melody again and again. He opens the closet door and stiffly crouches down to the floor. Lifting one of his shoes, the familiar rattle makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"I thought Cuddy took them," he says, pulling out the orange bottle that was wedged in the toe of his rarely-worn loafers.

"Why would she take them? You _need_ them."

"Last night, she…I don't need them anymore. I'm off the Vicodin."

"If your _Vicodin theory _is right, why am I still here?" He's silent again, contemplating the only other diagnosis for a split second before rapidly shaking his head and standing. Each chord is coming down like a blow to the head now. "Check your jacket pocket," she says, smirking, though her eyes are focused on the piano.

Only now has he realised he's still dressed from the day before; jeans, shirt and the usual grey suit-jacket. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out another pill bottle, half empty.

"You want one, don't you?" He's staring at the bottle with wide eyes. She's right. Of course she is. He wants the pills so much that he can't bear to put the vial down. But everything's conflicting. One half of him is telling him _no, you don't need the pills; the pills make you like this. _The other half is the Amber half and she seems to be shouting the loudest. "Just take one. It's your life, no one else's." He tips the bottle up on its end and listens as the pills tumble into the lid. His leg hurts. Seeing the pills makes him notice it more. _Not taking_ the pills makes him anxious and he dreads the pain. But he knows he shouldn't be feeling like this. _I don't need them. I should be able to cope now. It's_ _like the detox never h…_

And it clicks – later than usual – but it clicks. He's dressed. The room smells normal – no lingering smell of vomit, no air freshener smell to _mask_ the lingering smell of vomit. His eyes bore into the side of Amber's face as the notes keep coming, maddeningly unrelenting.

"But Cuddy was –"

"Cuddy wasn't even here, House."

He opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but nothing comes out. His breathing quickens and Amber starts laughing. He's sure she's laughing at him. Feeling an overwhelming surge of panic rushing through his body, he makes a grab for his phone and presses speed dial 1, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Amber.

"Wilson, I need you. I-I don't know what's real," he pauses for a moment before ending the call with, "she's here," his voice verging on despairing.

*

Wilson's afraid. He hears the same strangled panic that he heard when House asked him to get him from the café. Jumping out of bed, Wilson stuffs his feet into his loafers, throws on his coat and searches for his car keys. "Come on, come _on_!" he growls at himself, until he pats down his coat and finds them hiding in his pockets. He slams the front door, gets in his car and turns on the engine, the car grinding until it revs into action.

Thankfully there are hardly any cars on the road at this time of night; he doesn't have the time to look down, but he's pretty sure he's _well_ over the speed limit.

*

House glances away from Amber for a second, checking the time; it feels like he called Wilson hours ago.

"He's thinks you're crazy," Amber sings along to the tune.

"You _would_ say that," House grinds out, but there's no confidence in his voice.

"He's tired of baby-sitting you. He's had enough. Wilson's not coming."

"He'll _be_ here!" he snaps.

House is sitting on the couch now, eyes wide, barely blinking. His brain's running overtime. His thoughts are so focused on her – what she's doing, what she's saying – that he can't seem to control anything else. Even his pain has taken a backseat to Amber. It's still there. He can feel it, but there's so much going on that it barely registers. His entire body is shaking hard, battling against the confusion and terror in his gut, but unlike before, he's now more scared of _her_ than of what her presence means. He finds himself worrying that if Wilson doesn't arrive soon, he might forget how to breathe. His breaths are already coming in short gasps.

"How long before you _completely _lose it?" Amber's looking at him with dark eyes; her curled up lips portraying nothing but menace. "You haven't had any Vicodin in…what, seven hours? I'm as _here_ as I was before. I'm not going away so you might as well take some."

"I don't need this. I don't _need _the pills!"

"But you _want_ them. I can see it in your eyes. I can see you're in pain. You can pretend you're not, but you can't fool yourself."

The pills are there in the bottle, now resting on the coffee table. Just looking at them instantly brings his mind back to his leg. His hand moves to his thigh, his fingers digging in, kneading it, trying to work out the pain.

_Just a little longer, _he thinks._ Just a little longer without the pills and she'll be gone. Of course she will. She's just the pills. Just a little longer and Wilson will be here. Wilson will come._

Amber scoffs. "I'm _you,_ remember? You can't hide what you're thinking." She makes a show of her hands running the same course on the piano.

"Don't you know anymore of that song?" he says, grinding his teeth.

"Of course I know more, but this is so much more fun, isn't it?"

"Can you just…just _stop _for a –"

"Well, that wouldn't be _fun_ now, would it?"

She's still playing it. Over and over. Only now, it's like she's bashing the keys. House clamps his hands over his ears. It's getting louder and higher and each staccato note is like a nail being hammered into his skull.

She keeps going, laughing darkly as he tries to stand with his hands still over his ears. As quickly as his body will allow, he limps awkwardly down the hall into his bedroom. Amber hammers at the keys and the sound echoes off the walls. He can't escape it.

He collapses onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. Curling the pillow around his ears and closing his eyes tight, he tries his best to block the world out.

She shouts over the piano, "_We_ can still hear me!" but her voice sounds distant; her words running together. Eventually, he can hear nothing at all.

*

"Wake up! What are we missing?" House's own voice comes out of nowhere. He's sure he didn't say anything. He slowly loosens his grip on the sides of the pillow, exposing his ears. He can't bring himself to open his eyes for fear of coming face to face with Amber – he's not sure if his organs can take it anymore working at double speed. But as he sucks in a deep breath, his lungs feel clear. Clean – like menthol clean. Open airways, the right amount of oxygen going in and the right amount of carbon-dioxide being expelled. He can breathe again; no rasping, no rapid heart beat. In fact, he's quite comfortably numb.

"Stress." _Un_comfortably numb. Forget Amber. House's eyes fly open to the sound of a very familiar voice. "It's been known to trigger visual hallucinations. He's been under a lot of stress lately. No thanks to me."

Sitting at the table in the differential room, bright and alive, is Kutner. Foreman and Taub are deep in thought whilst Thirteen taps her pen lightly on her knee.

House's head whips around the room; it's brighter than usual, too white, and he has to shield his eyes from the glare. His mind doesn't know where to start, '_how the hell did I get here? What's _he_ doing here? What is this?'_ but he can't help but feel slightly relieved that Amber's not around.

Turning his head toward the source of most of the brightness in the room, House freezes at the sight of himself – looking irritable, but well – scrutinising the whiteboard, one word written dead-centre – _hallucinations_.

"It's something else," he watches himself say.

"The Vicodin. He's been an addict for so long –" Thirteen tries.

"He hasn't taken any in hours." House mouths the exact words with his counterpart.

"Then it's withdrawal," Foreman, "who knows if he's even taken any today?"

"He took two this morning," Thirteen interjects, "I saw. He's not detoxing."

The room is still. House watches himself twirl his cane between his fingers, still studying the board as though the answer is hidden and all he has to do is wait for it to appear.

After an uncomfortable minute or so, Taub is the one to break the silence. "No one's mentioned mental illness." His voice is low and hushed. Nobody looks surprised at what he's suggesting, they're all thinking the same thing.

"I'm not schizophrenic," House says, willing his counterpart at the whiteboard to say something, to shoot them down, to find a reason – any reason – that Schizophrenia is simply not an option – that his mind isn't failing him. "Listen to me, it can't be. It's _not _–"

"Schizophrenia." He watches incredulously as his own lips mutter the word with a sigh of defeat.

"Don't you think that's jumping ahead a bit?" Foreman asks.

"Fine, mental illnesses associated with visual hallucinations. Go." House approaches the whiteboard, watching as his parallel-person picks up a whiteboard marker and is poised to write.

"Bipolar disorder?" Taub suggests.

"Borderline personality disorder?" Thirteen says.

The pen scribbles diagnoses on the whiteboard. Kutner remains quiet.

"Sleep disorder?"

There's a sudden ringing in House's ears and he blinks, reaching out for the whiteboard to keep him from falling.

"Li…insom…?"

He can't tell who's speaking; the voice keeps cutting out.

"Wh…if it's…SD?"

White noise everywhere. Crackling, buzzing around his head. Numbness is quickly replaced by distress as the sound runs like sandpaper through his ears.

The voices meld into one and are quickly drowned out by the buzzing. He can see the team are still talking, but he can't hear a word. He watches himself, still writing on the whiteboard, but the letters are jumbled and the words don't make sense.

Like an old radio tune, House hears the same cursed six notes of Claire de Lune escaping the white noise. He wants to get out, _needs _to get out, but there aren't any doors. He shouts the first thing that comes into his head. "Wilson!" But he can barely hear himself speak.

His head's spinning and he tries to duck away from the sound, bringing his hands to his ears, but this only serves to amplify the roar.

"Stop," he pleads through a tightly shut jaw, looking on as the team and his counterpart are oblivious to him. "Stop this. Wilson?" he calls out.

A voice bleeds through, but it's not Wilson, the accent's all wrong. He shifts backwards as Kutner gets up from the table and advances on him. House is almost backed up against the wall when Kutner speaks.

"You can end this."

"How?" House asks, eyes cold and hard, voice thick with desperation.

"Look in your hand."

*

When Wilson finds him, he's slumped in the corner of the bedroom. "God, House!" He slides to the floor and kneels beside his friend, frantically feeling for his pulse. "House, can you hear me?" The orange bottle rolls onto the floor from House's hand and, at the sight of his powder covered lips, Wilson calls for an ambulance – struggling to comprehend how he and everyone else let it get this far.

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**A/N**: Please let me know what you think etc. Tbh, I confused myself a little while I was writing it, but I needed to get it out by Monday (before the finale) otherwise it would've been pointless to write. So if there's anything confusing, let me know and I'll either explain or amend. Can't wait for the ep now!


End file.
